


Fandral's Lover

by Ghelik



Series: Loki & Friends [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Asgardian Culture (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Misogyny, how not to be in a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22975108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: Fandral hasn't seen Loki in fifty years. When he finds him in Asgard's vast library, he discovers that Thor's bratty brother has become a fascinating man. A man he cannot get out of his head.It becomes a problem.
Relationships: Fandral/Loki (Marvel)
Series: Loki & Friends [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/414379
Comments: 13
Kudos: 120





	Fandral's Lover

Fandral doesn't usually grace the library with his presence. He isn’t overly interested in books and dislikes the quietness of the large halls. The only reason he walked through large carved doors is the new librarian: a slip of a woman, fresh from a small, rural village called Jiftan or Kirkæn or something like that. She’s not his usual type, which is the reason why he’s here, pursuing her.

Fandral wanders around the vast library, down aisles upon aisles of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and past study-nooks where the young scholars of Asgard’s University bend over old manuscripts. The university was built as a wedding gift for Queen Frigga and used to be bursting with students from all the realms. Then the Æsir-Jutun war happened and, now, it’s only a shadow of its former self, still functioning thanks to the handful of youths who reject the noble arts of combat, and the few Álfheimr elves who seek Æsir knowledge.

Fandral pays them no mind. There is no fun in courting impressionable elves, and the ásynjur students are too absorbed in the words of forgotten thinkers to be interested in gallantry.

Continuing in his search of the new librarian, he bends a corner and stops. At the end of the aisle is a tall, narrow window, and curled on the windowsill sits a young man, a large book lies open on his bent legs, his head turned towards the gardens beyond the glass.

His hair is long and black, pulled back into a carless semi-updo, curling slightly around a sharp jaw.

It’s his fingers, rubbing distractedly at his bottom lip, curled around the edge of a yellowing page, what catch Fandral’s attention. They are long and narrow, and Fandral can imagine them all too well tangled in his shirt, pulling him in, traveling down to-

He pushes the thoughts away, clearing his suddenly dry throat.

It is a mistake because the sound snaps the young man’s attention, and he turns his head, sharp green eyes gleaming in the sunlight. His thin eyebrows draw together into a small frown.

“Fandral?” asks Loki Odinson. “What are you doing here?”

His eye catches on the proud arch of Loki’s sharp cheekbones, and Fandral feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“I-er,” he shifts, walking closer in what hopes is a dignified gait. “I came looking for you,” he lies.

Loki continues to stare, his right hand picking again at his bottom lip. One of his eyebrows arches inquisitively, and when did Thor’s annoying little brother become so- so-.

“Pray tell.”

He is at a loss, his brain embarrassingly empty.

“I was-“ Fandral clears his throat again. “I wanted to know-“ On Loki’s lap, the book is open on what appears to be some water-plants. “Mermaids! I wanted to know if you know where to find them.”

Loki blinks at him. “You want to find mermaids?”

“Yes. I’m planning my next adventure.”

The young prince throws him a doubtful look. Then he sits up, crossing his feet under himself, leaving room for Fandral on the windowsill.

It is awkward for ten seconds, in which the warrior is acutely aware that he and Thor's younger brother were never friends. That he hadn’t talked to him since Loki spent ten years on Midgard and came back with a mysterious illness that had him quarantined for nearly three years, and changed his hair from fiery-red to raven-black.

Loki starts talking slowly: matter-of-factly, giving him the bare minimum of information in the direst way possible. Mermaids are most common on Swartalfheimr, amphibious but cannot change their tails for feet like some of the stories suggest. They sleep on weeping willows and have a bizarre mating ritual every solstice.

Fandral knows that, in a few moments, Loki will dismiss him, and a part of him doesn’t want to leave just yet.

“What do you mean with weird mating rituals?”

It is as if a dam breaks and suddenly Loki comes alive.

The prince speaks with his hands, long fingers flowing with the rise and ebb of his storyteller-voice, his wit pulling startled laughs out of Fandral’s belly

It is there, sitting on the narrow windowsill, with the setting sun casting Loki’s sharp features into relief, that Fandral notices that he has never wanted someone as much as he does the young prince.

***

The trouble with developing a crush on your best friend’s younger brother isn’t so much the younger brother – Fandral is confident he can woo whoever he wishes - but the best friend. Thor has always been extremely protective of Loki, more so in the century since his Midgardian illness.

On the plus side, it means that Fandral gets to spend a lot of time around Loki when Thor inevitably drags him out of his rooms or the quiet library to tag along on adventures. 

Spending days on end traveling with Sif, Hogun, Volstagg, Thor, and Loki is a blessing and a course. Because he can sit across Loki, and discover new, exciting things about him. But cannot lean over and brush that curl that keeps escaping his braid behind his ear. He cannot touch him, cannot talk to him, and ask what it is like to see the colors of seiđr permeating the world.

Loki is subdued when with the others, his hands staying stubbornly still when he talks and his back ramrod straight. There is nothing of the storyteller’s voice or the relaxed arch of his shoulders he had in the library. His wit is fettered and restricted like a misbehaving dog.

They spend three weeks camping on miserable moors and fighting giant moth-like creatures, as big as horses, that leave them covered in disgusting goo. It is tedious and repetitive and not as exciting as Thor made it out to be when he first suggested they accompany him.

“What are you planning to do with that egg?” Fandral asks Loki, falling into step with him at the rear of their party.

“What egg?”

“I saw you pocketing it earlier when we were exterminating the nest.”

Loki stares at him for a moment. Then he twists his fingers in a complicated gesture, and Fandral tastes his magic in the air.

“And you are whispering about this because-?”

“Well, you were sneaky about it, so I guessed you didn’t want the others to find out.”

The prince regards him with a long look.

“I intend to bring it back to Asgard and study it.”

Fandral frowns. “Why?”

“To learn what it’s made off, how it developed, and see if I can use parts of it for spells.”

Talking about magic makes him uncomfortable, a large part of his mind recoiling at the _unmanliness_ and wrongness of it. Fandral wets his lips and forces the words out of his throat anyway: “What kind of spells?”

The hitch in Loki’s step is the only outward sign that he’s surprised by the question. “I don’t know yet. But insects are useful for a variety of enchantments. Sometimes you need their legs for locating or summoning spells. If wings are not too badly damaged, you can stitch them into capes that allow you to harness the wind. Eggs in general hold potential, and potential is one of the most useful power-sources.”  
“I don’t understand.”

“Eggs contain creatures that have not yet been. They haven’t walked their path, and thus their threads are still fully charged with possibilities. The older one gets, the less potential they have, because the more their decisions have set their path on stone. If you hold someone whose potential hasn’t even begun-“ Loki's mouth snaps shut, his eyes growing suddenly dull.

Fandral frowns, his hand landing lightly on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

For a terrifying moment, Loki stares through him, horribly pale and haunted. Then he blinks, swallows compulsively, and pushes a faint smile onto his lips.

“Peachy. Let’s go; the others will start to wonder what we're up to.”

That night, for the first time in weeks, they make camp on a dry field that isn’t swarmed with mosquitos. They build a roaring fire where they roast rabbits, and Volstagg pulls out his lute. Passing it around and singing tales is a traditional part of hunting trips, and Fandral loves it.

Sif regales them with her favorite story of valkyries, Hogun speaks of his family in Vanaheimr, Volstagg spins an outrageous tale that has them howling with laughter. Thor recounts one of their adventures, in which he paints everyone far more glorious than they were.

And then he turns and pales, seeing Loki sitting beside him. He freezes for a moment too long, and his smile is jagged and unsure.

“What say you, Loki? Do you feel up for a tale?”

“Yes,” exclaims Volstagg happily. “It has been too long since you delighted us with your silver-tongue.”

Loki’s eyes could have frozen Surtur himself. “I don’t sing.”

Thor looks like he wants to argue, but holds his tongue, handing the lute over to Fandral.

***

Hlidskjalf’s banquet hall is full. Music, food, and drinks flow in celebration of the new harvest, and the goddess Idunn, decked in blossoms and flowers, sits at the high table as the guest of honor.

Fandral has never liked her much, but today she looks positively ordinary, with her chubby cheeks and crooked nose. It doesn’t help that she’s sitting beside Loki, who, even sprawled and indifferent to the dancing and food, looks ten times more regal than Idunn ever could.

Volstagg staggers off the dancefloor, his face flustered. “Why are you sitting here like some old crone?” He snatches his drinking horn, draining it in two gulps.

“I feel like I’ve danced with every maiden in these halls already.”

Volstagg laughs and claps him on the back. On the dancefloor his wife signals for him to go back.

“Then you should ask Idunn; she looks especially radiant tonight.”

Fandral forces a smile on his lips.

His crush on Loki has been going on for too long, and he is aware that people are starting to talk, to wonder if he has lost his touch. He should dance, and select one of the many ladies who look expectantly in his direction, or maybe flirt with some married woman, and-

The song ends, and the people on the dancefloor clap towards the orchestra sitting in a balcony on the second floor.

The fiddler takes his bow to the strings, the first quick notes tickling the back of Fandral’s mind. It’s been years since this song has been heard in Hlidskjalf’s banquet hall. At the high table, Loki raises his head, his eyes shining, suddenly alert.

The bass and drums come in, and Loki’s on his feet, joining the dancers and Fandral never quite managed to learn the complicated sequence of steps, but he stands to join, nonetheless.

A small voice in the back of his mind tells him that he’s going to make a fool of himself. This is the fire-dance, and there are very few dancers skilled enough to perform it. He was never one of them.

Fandral twists and turns in rhythm with the quickening music, and his shoulder brushes Loki’s.

Around the room, the fires seem to shine brighter, green flames leaping up towards the roof in time with the quick skip-hop-skip steps.

He links arms with an old lady and then turns and twists, and someone steps on his foot. He stumbles back and links his arm with the next partner, skirts and sleeves brushing around him, and then someone grabs him by the shoulders, and he has to stare at his boots to make sure they obey the complicated sequence.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” whispers Loki in his ear. Fandral's heart skips a beat, suddenly aware of the cold skin of Loki’s thumb on the side of his throat, of the lean body standing in arms reach and of the green eyes shining with barely contained seiđr. The highlights in his black hair look nearly orange. He’s smiling, intoxicated with music and magic.

Fandral realizes this is the first time he’s seen him smile in the last hundred years.

Then they’re twisting, moving with the music to the next partner, flowing like a river through the dancefloor.

The music ends, and Fandral finds himself standing across from the prince. There is a flush high on his cheeks, and he’s breathing hard, his eyes closed, and for a moment, he looks young and carefree and happy. Then he opens his eyes, the smile dies, and leaves the room.

***

The maid giggles as she tugs him down a corridor.

Fandral isn’t supposed to be here, but the warmth of the maid’s mouth and the soft press of her pliant bosom against his chest are enticing, and he isn’t thinking about the consequences of being in the women’s wing of the castle. He knows these are the weaving and nursing rooms, where women loosen their corsets and their tongues and drink and do womanly things that men aren’t supposed to see.

The maid pushes him into a small closet, her little hands wrapping around him, and in the dim light, the only thing he can see is the blond highlights of her hair and the kind brown eyes.

She is demanding and vigorous and giggles like a girl when he mouths at her chest. For a few blissful moments, he feels like himself again, comfortable in his skin and having fun, all thoughts of raven-haired princes thrust out of his mind.

There is a complex straightforwardness to pleasing a partner. Sex has always been easy for him, the charm, the thrill of the chase – much like a hunt but less bloody and more satisfying. He has loved many of his partners and enjoys being in love, even if it only lasts a couple of months or a few years.

The maid moans loudly, and he smiles into her shoulder.

This, this is easy.

Afterwards, the maid kisses him, wet and hot, and he knows he’ll probably seek her out again after tonight’s banquet.

They exit the closet, sneaking looks up and down the corridor, to make sure nobody sees them, hurrying out, the thrill of doing something forbidden pulsing through their veins.

“Well then,” the voice stops Fandral dead in his tracks. For a moment, he thinks they has been discovered. “I will have to remedy that.”

The male voice comes from the door to his left.

Music starts to play, a soft melody, plucked from the strings of a harp. It lures him like a siren’s song.

The door is ajar, which allows him to peek into the weaving room.

He sees two old crones, with hunched backs, sitting at their looms, across from them, Loki, a harp on his knee, his long fingers plucking the strings. He sings in a language Fandral doesn’t recognize, and there must be magic woven in Loki’s words because he finds himself teary-eyed and gasping for air.

“Ah!” sighs the old crone to his left. “Your voice reminds me of my Frederic. He had the sweetest voice.”

“How old was he?” Loki is still plucking at the strings.

“Six hundred. Barely even a grown man, but so eager to prove himself. He died during the Alfheimr revolts." she shakes her head sadly. “He's been dead longer than he was alive. And I still miss him every day.”

“Some wounds never stop aching,” nods the woman to his right. Loki says nothing, his eyes a dull green, cast to the floor. “You play beautifully, young Loki. Where did you learn?”

“A friend taught me. It soothes the young ones to sleep.”

“I will tell my daughter-in-law,” decides the crone on the right. “Her Rolo is teething and gets such terrible fits.”

Someone tugs on Fandral’s arm, bringing his attention back to the corridor and the maid.

“Did you know, prince Loki was here?” he asks when they reach the door to the women’s wing. The maid shrugs. “He likes to sit with the old widows or weaves with the Queen.”

“I thought men weren’t allowed in the women’s wing.”

The maid twists her lips into a sardonic smile. “They aren’t. But the prince goes where he pleases.”

***

Niflheimr is a pest-infested, Norns-forsaken rock, and they should never have come here. Still, here they are, fighting a horde of faceless ghouls that keeps creeping out of from the ground no matter how many they kill.

They are fighting for their lives, finesse, and tactic abandoned out of sheer desperation. Thor and Sif love this. Fandral does not. Sure, he enjoys the glory and the benefits that come from having vanquished this and that monster. But the actual bloody battle is a drag.

“There are too many!” Volstagg's voice booms over the sounds of the battle, his double-headed ax slicing through the creatures. “We should retreat!”

Thor doesn’t listen or doesn’t care. Drenched in the creature’s black blood, he summons lightning and smashes skulls, a wide grin splitting his face. Beside him, Sif looks like a valkyrie of legend, her sword dripping with gore.

“Where is Loki?” shouts Hogun, and, for a terrifying moment, Fandral can't find him and fears he might have fallen, that he might be wounded, trampled by the battle.

Then he sees him: seiđr whipping around him, crackling like fire, tearing creatures outside out, weaving in and out of flesh like knives on soft butter.

It is majestic and terrifying, and nothing Fandral has ever seen before.

"Loki!" bellows Volstagg. "Loki, can you take us out of here?"

Fandral doesn't hear the answer, too busy defending himself from the horde. One of them manages to slice at him, cold dead fingers tearing a chunk of his side. Fandral grits his teeth and cuts the monster's head off with his sword.

Volstagg is the first to disappear: there one second, gone the next. Then Thor and a shrieking Sif. Hugon blinks out of existence, and Fandral finds himself suddenly swarmed, terrified with the prospect of dying alone, and unable to do anything but keep fighting.

Then a hand, cold and slick with blood, grabs him by the back of his neck, and the world turns inside out. For a moment, he hangs in absolute darkness, absolute silence, absolute nothingness. The hand on the back of his neck spasms, and the world returns as suddenly as it vanished.

He’s standing in a cave, bioluminescent plants covering the ceiling and stonewalls, casting everything into mysterious greens and blues.

The hand drops from his neck. Fandral turns to see Loki, wavering where he stands. The light makes his pale skin look nearly blue, his hair matted with blood, and his clothes soaked through, sticking to his body.

“Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” he pants and faints.

Fandral isn’t sure how long he sits in that cave, tending to the myriad small wounds littering Loki’s body, hoping he will wake up and take him back home. It feels like weeks. It's probably only hours.

Loki stirs at some point; turns his head, eyes still closed. “Siegfried?” And something in Fandral’s belly grows cold. “What are you doing up? Come back to bed, I’m-”

Loki’s eyes fall on him, and his mouth snaps shut. He looks around with a frown, sitting up slowly.

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know. You pulled me out of Niflheimr and brought us here.”

The prince puts a hand to his head. “I must have miscalculated. I was supposed to take us back to Asgard, but I was already drained.” He stands slowly, his knees buckle, but he doesn’t fall.

“Can you take us back?”

“Not yet. Norns, I am starving” 

The silence that falls between them is heavy and uncomfortable. In Fandral’s mind, Loki’s words chase each other like mad dogs. Who is this Siegfried? How did he earn the place in Loki’s thoughts that Fandral so desperately wants?

The prince wanders over to one of the walls, scraps some of the bioluminescent moss off the wall, scrutinizes it, and sticks it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

“I don’t think that is edible.”

“My stomach is harder than yours.” Loki’s scraping more of the moss, gulping it down as he goes.

“I don’t see how you, sickening from eating unknown plants, is going to help our situation.”

“I am starving,” growls Loki. “It’s what happens when I use too much seiđr trying to save my brother’s foolish friends.”

The harshness in his voice feels like a slap—my _brother’s friends_.

“I thought we were your friends, too.”

Loki arches an eyebrow in his direction. “You look at all your friends like that, or am I just special?” Fandral feels himself blush but forces his eyes to remain on the prince.

“You are special,” he confesses, it sounds like a challenge, and Loki stares at him for a moment. When he grins, there are bits of bioluminescent plants on his teeth. It is a grotesque mockery of the smile he had while dancing the fire-dance.

Fandral doesn’t back down, and Loki drops his grin, running his tongue over his teeth. “So, you’ve grown tired of chasing every lady in Asgard and decided to move on to more challenging prey?”

The prince prowls forward, something sensual and dangerous in the way he sways his hips and tilts his head.

“No,” Fandral stands his ground, ignoring the voice of his instincts telling him to run, to drop this conversation before Loki reaches him. “It’s just you.”

“Why? Because Thro wouldn’t bend?”

Fandral feels like he’s walking down a narrow path, one false step and he’ll tumble into an abyss of shame. Loki deals in secrets and mischief, he has destroyed more than one reputation: pranks that have gone too far; slights avenged trice over.

Fandral wets his lips. If he remains silent, he can pretend this whole conversation never happened, and Loki won’t use it against him, because he holds the name of his-.

_Who is Siegfried?_

But maybe- Maybe he does have a chance.

“It’s your hands.” Loki stops, dead in his tracks, bright poison-green eyes narrowing. “It’s the way you move them when you’re excited, the way you curl them around your lip when you’re thinking, and how the spark just before you cast.”

Something flashes in his face, but Fandral doesn’t have time to read it.

“You are right; I can have every maiden on Asgard. And probably half the males, too.” He intends it as a joke, but Loki stares at him, stony-faced. “But none of them hold a candle to your beauty and wit. I have seen you smile once, and I starve to see it again. To be the one to put that smile on your face.”

“Asgard isn’t fond of my chaos.”

 _So, is Siegfried not of Asgard_? Fandral wants to ask.

“And yet, there is a hearth in every home.”

The prince lounges. Fandral’s hands wrap around his back out of instinct. Loki is a demanding kisser, pulling at his hair and biting at his lip. It doesn’t feel like kissing a woman. Loki’s all hard lines, fluid like a snake; plains that arch and bend. His skin tastes like magic; it tingles on his tongue and makes him lightheaded.

Fandral hasn’t pleased that many men in his life, he usually doesn’t feel the same pull towards them than towards women, but he’s done this with enough to know what to do, and Loki is oh, so responsive, his skin marred with half-healed lines and white scars. His calloused hands rake through Fandral’s hair and claw at his back, and the sounds that escape Loki’s throat as Fandral pulls him closer, go straight to his core, branding him and ruining him for everyone else.

***

Loki is avoiding him.

It’s been over two weeks since the cave, and the second prince has all but disappeared. He isn’t in the library and doesn’t come to the dining hall. Nobody seems to miss him, and when Fandral asks Thor, he shrugs and says Loki’s probably off-world. World-walking.

A tiny part of Fandral’s brain wonders if Loki’s back with Siegfried. If they’re snickering behind Fandral’s back for his sentimental outburst. If Loki’s telling his lover abou Fandral’s shortcomings, comparing them and making him the butt of some cruel joke.

Another, louder part of him, is scared that he drove Loki away and has lost even his friendship.

There is no joy in flirting with random ladies when worry consumes his thoughts. So, he sleeps alone, conjuring the memories of the prince’s back, bent like a bow, of the long column of his throat and the sounds he made.

In the third week, he sneaks into the royal wing. Loki’s door is two halls down from Thor’s, the carved wood telling the story of some wizard of legend taming wild beasts. A colossal dragon curves across the top, a wolf growls on a panel to his left.

Fandral knocks. 

For a moment, there is silence. The dragon turns his head towards him, his whiskers twitching.

The door swings open, and Fandral hurries inside, suddenly fearful of being discovered here.

Loki’s rooms are bright and airy, the windows wide open despite the winter chill. Constellations that Fandral doesn’t recognize blink at him from the ceiling and portraits and tapestries from all over the Nine hang from the walls. It is tasteful and chaotic, a glimpse into the prince’s preferences he hadn’t had before. Loki himself is sprawled on a wing chair, his long limbs hanging carelessly over one arm, his head cradled against the wing.

“Fandral the Dashing,” drawls the prince without moving. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I haven’t seen you since-“ he shrugs one shoulder, and Loki chuckles.

“Yes, well. I thought you might want some distance after our last- talk.” There is something sinful in the way his tongue curls around the L and snaps the K.

“Why would I?”

Loki’s smirk falls away, he turns his gaze down to his book, rubs the pages thoughtfully.

“You were honest with me in that cave. I will grant you the same courtesy.”

The prince unfolds, pads around the room to return the book to one of the shelves next to the window. His long fingers trail over the spines of books. On the shelf sits the framed portrait of an elf, and a part of Fandral wonders who it is and why Loki keeps it in his rooms.

“I don’t handle rejection well,” Loki says at last. “So, I deemed it wise to stay away for a bit before I watch you wooing some pretty lady or other.”

“Why would I?”

“There is no fun in chasing someone who submits so willingly?” Loki shrugs. “I knew you would lose interest once you had conquered me. And I do not resent you for it. We can’t escape our nature, now, can we?”

“My nature?” He swallows. “Loki, I- I meant what I said. I didn’t string you along for a fuck.”

“I know you were honest. But let’s be realistic, Fandral, the Dashing, has no business seeking-“

“If you don’t want me, that’s fine. But don’t assume to know what I want.”

“And what is it that you want?”

“You.”

“That simple?”

“Yes, that simple. I want you by my side.”

“I don’t share, Fandral. You will tire of me, let us spare each other the heartache.”

He narrows his eyes at Loki. “Are you scared?”

“Not particularly. I don’t see the point in pursuing something we both know is doomed.”

Fandral takes a step forward and, when Loki doesn’t move, another, and another, crowding the prince back against the shelves.

“I don’t think it is doomed. And I think we can make it work.”

Loki hums but doesn’t pull away when he kisses him.

***

They go on adventures together, just the two of them. Loki is careful, picking only the most stunning places and most exciting adventures. They search for treasures on Vanaheimr, climb the mountains of Svartálfheimr, they visit the Álfheimr festivals, dance under the setting suns of Niflheimr, and hunt on Asgarđr. They spent a grand total of twenty-three seconds on Múspellsheimr before deciding it is too hot and not worth the trouble.

Fandral’s still uncomfortable with the easiness with which Loki calls seiđr to his fingertips and hunts down artifacts on Niđavellir’s markets. But listening to him talk about magic, seeing him light up, eyes bright with interest makes it worth a little discomfort.

Their affair is quiet, and they’re careful to keep it that way, silently agreeing never to let anyone know about it. Fandral flirts around in the grand hall and the taverns when they join Thor, Sif, and the others on adventures. And Loki acts all high and mighty and detached like always, and sometimes his words seem more barbed than they need to be, but Fandral knows he doesn’t mean them; it is all just an act, to protect Fandral’s reputation.

***

Siegfried, whoever he is, hangs like a shadow between them, and Fandral doesn’t know how to ask. Doesn’t _dare_ , for fear, Loki will run and end their relationship.

For all he learns of Loki, that lover, that part of his past that seems to haunt him, is something he can never understand, and he hates it. Hates that sometimes, Loki will wake, screaming Siegfried's name, and then pretend it never happened. Hates that he can’t be sure the prince isn’t thinking of him while they’re together.

He hates that creature that in his mind looks like a shining broad-shouldered, dazzling hero, even though he can’t be sure which species he was.

On their travels, Fandral watches Loki’s interactions with strangers: the easy way he sifts from one accent to another, the softness in his eyes when mothers let him pick up their children, and the playful smile he throws at vendors. All the while, he wonders: does he look at Vanir with that same softness? Would he go down on his knees for a dwarf? Is this elf- tall and lean and effeminate – more to his liking?

“You,” whispers Loki in his ear, materializing beside him, “look like someone drank all of your ale.”

Fandral pushes the thoughts away, forcing a smile on his lips.

Loki seems at home here, surrounded by the chaotic bustle and rush of the elven market.

“I have a gift for you,” the prince purrs, slinking his long arms around his neck, and insinuating himself along his body.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Trygve wasn’t particularly keen on letting _me_ purchase it. But,” he smiles mischievously, “I _can_ be very persuasive.”

 _What did you do to convince Trygve, the elf?_ Fandral wants to ask but doesn't, and Loki pulls a parcel seemingly out of thin air. It tingles with his magic, and a part of Fandral resents it, even though he doesn't know why.

Inside is a pair of leather vambrace, nearly black, etched with golden filigree, an eagle carved at the top, and a wolf curled at the bottom. “They’re enchanted,” Loki explains, his long fingers tracing the soft leather, “to repel any projectile.”

***

Loving Loki can be a chore. The young prince is moody and volatile, swinging violently from childish glee to burning wrath and falling prey to fits of melancholia for apparently no reason.

Fandral is convinced it has something to do with his seiđr. After all, aren’t mood-swings what so often affects women? And isn’t seiđr a feminine tool?

They have been together for ten years now, and Fandral knows that something is up with him. Loki hasn’t come out of his room in a fortnight, has sent him away whenever he tried to visit, and even Thor doesn’t know what he is doing.

He proposes they go hunting in Vanaheimr, knowing Thor can convince his brother to visit one of his favorite realms. Once there, they will have plenty of time to talk, and it will do Loki good to get out of the palace.

They do have plenty of time to talk, but Loki won’t answer.

He’s pale and taciturn, sluggish in his reactions, and careless in his gestures. When they sit around the fire to tell stories after supper, he turns away and wanders. When Fandral tries to coax words out of him, Loki stares as though he doesn’t hear him.

By the third night, when they make their way into an inn, Fandral is all but fed up with Loki’s childishness. He drinks more than he should and wakes up in the arms of a beautiful redheaded woman.

He refuses to feel guilty as they make their way down to the ground floor, where Volstagg wolf-whistles and the rest laugh good-naturedly. Loki’s eyes move sluggishly from his wooden bowl up to the stairs, take one look at him, and the redhead and flees.

Fandral refuses to let the guilt devour him. He sits with his companions, ignoring Loki’s empty spot, and eats his breakfast.

The young prince hasn’t returned when he finishes, and he makes an excuse to go and find him while the rest pack their things to continue.

He finds Loki behind the inn, curled in a ball, pale-faced and shaking. “Are you alright?”

The prince looks up at him, turns, and retches violently on the floor.

“Loki! Are you ill? Is it something you ate?”

Fandral reaches to pull his hair back, but Loki shrinks from his touch with a growl. “I am fine.”

“What’s taking so long?” Sif appears beside them and frowns. “Are you sick?”

“It would seem so,” pants Loki, spitting on the floor and straightening. He looks nearly green. “Tell my brother I will be going home. You can continue without me.”

“Are you sure?” asks Fandral. “I can come with you.”

“I am perfectly capable of removing myself. Have fun on your hunt.”

And he is gone.

***

Fandral is tired. Tired of Loki’s moods and his secrets and the angry stares, he throws his way whenever he flirts with the women of the court.

It’s been twenty years, and he’s starting to resent his lover for going back on their unspoken agreement, for never speaking plainly and for pulling away whenever he’s hurting. He wants Loki’s trust, but the only thing he seems to gain is his disdain and contempt.

He is angry and wants to hurt him, so he finds the prettiest girl in the dining hall and woos her, lets her sit on his lap and plays with the end of her fiery red braid, feeling Loki’s green eyes burning at the back of his skull. He pretends it doesn’t bother him and pulls her into an alcove. 

Fandral sighs into her mouth, emptying himself between her thighs. It was messy and not his best work, but for one blissful second, he isn't wrung out, scrapped raw against Loki’s indifference.

“I haven’t had the chance to greet you properly, Lady Astrid.”

The woman gasps, pushing Fandral away, turning her big blue eyes towards Loki, casually leaning against a pillar. “My prince.”

“I am glad that my neglect hasn’t soured your evening.”

Lady Astrid flounders, licks her lips, and stammers something unintelligible. “Come now, my lady. We’re both adults here, and _you_ have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Fandral searches Loki’s face, but the prince isn’t looking at him, his amused smile pinning the redhead like a bug.

“Are you expecting another round, or do you want to continue our previous discussions?”

 _What previous discussions?_ Fandral wants to ask but can’t find his voice, and Lady Astrid slumps with relief at Loki’s words.

“I would love to continue our discussions. That is why I came to Asgard.”

Loki offers his arm, patiently waiting for Astrid to arrange her skirts. Her cheeks are flaming hot, but she puts her hand on his elbow. “Thank you, Lord Fandral. For your company tonight,” she says with a small curtsy.

Loki doesn’t even look at him, towing the lady down a long corridor.

For a moment, Fandral stays there, panting, shame and uneasiness coursing through his veins.

 _He planned this_ , whispers a nasty voice in the back of his head. _He wanted to humiliate you and then take away your partner because he is a prince, and he can._

Fury is easier to manage than guilt. He wraps it around himself like a cloak of adrenaline and stalks after them as quietly as he can.

The warrior finds them in the gardens, sitting side by side on an ornate metal bench. Loki’s chuckle tugs at something deep in his belly, and he falters, ducking behind a bush to spy on his lover.

“No, no, no, Lady Astrid, that is simply impossible.”

From where he is, Fandral can only see Loki’s profile and Astrid’s pout. _What is impossible?_

“I made the calculations,” she huffs indignantly.

“You didn’t account for energy loss. The harder the spell, the more energy is required, Lady Astrid. That is seiđr’s first lesson.”

“I can channel the ground’s energy.”

“And leave the soil barren for decades, which is the exact opposite of what you are trying to accomplish.”

Fandral gapes.

 _He doesn’t care_. _He has seen you, balls deep inside someone else, and is now sitting here, talking about magic like it never happened._

“It is unseemly to creep around dark gardens, Lord Fandral.” Loki’s voice is like a whip, and Astrid jumps.

Fandral grabs at his fury with both hands, standing tall and stepping closer.

“I would speak with you, Loki.”

The prince’s spine stiffens, his eyes snapping to his face, magic crackling in the air. Very slowly, he raises - when did he become so tall?

“You _would speak to me_ ,” he growls darkly like an angered wolf. Fandral refuses to back down, straightening as tall as he is, setting his feet apart. “And what authority do you have to command me?”

The warrior's eyes flit from him to Lady Astrid, looking between them with a small frown, reminding him they are in Asgard, reminding him what is on the line if people caught wind that-

He bows. “I meant no disrespect, my prince.”

“Fine. Then leave, and I will call on you when I have time to speak to you.”

He tries not the let the words sting, slinking away and back into the grand hall.

He waits for hours, but neither Loki nor Astrid comes back and, the prince does not summon him.

Resentment burns through him like a wildfire he can’t drown it in ale. Finally, when most of the courtiers have trickled out of the room, he makes up his mind, stumbling into the royal quarters. He doesn’t knock on Loki’s door, hasn’t knocked in over a decade, letting himself in with only a cautious look down the corridor to make sure nobody sees him.

Loki’s meditating, cross-legged on the rug, fire and seiđr curling around his body and drawing blue lines over his skin.

Fandral watches him from the door.

“I don’t recall summoning you,” growls Loki.

“I am not a dog to be called to heel.”

When he opens his eyes, they look blood red for a second before setting back to poison-green. “No,” the seiđr dies down, but the faint dark blue lines on his skin remain as he stands and throws open the windows. “At least a dog has some sense of loyalty.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I told you, I do not share what is mine.”

Fandral curls his lip. “You were happy enough to sit with Astrid afterward. Did she describe every dirty detail? Did she tell you how she enjoyed it?”

“Lady Astrid is not at fault here, Fandral. _You_ are.”

“Me?”

“Do you think I am an imbecile? Do you think I don’t see you flirting and touching every woman that so much as glances in your direction?”

Fandral crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s an act. You know that. We agreed to it.”

“I don’t recall ever agreeing to be kept a secret.”

“We may have never said so in that many words, but it was a tacit agreement to protect my reputation.”

“Your reputation." Loki's voice drips with sarcasm. "As a womanizer and a flirt. That reputation?”

“At least people don’t call me seiðskratti and ar-!” Fandral snaps his mouth shut, but it is too late. The words hang between them like an ugly monster rearing its head in the sudden silence. “Loki, I-“

"You are ashamed of me.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then, please. Explain what you did mean.”

Fandral scrambles for words. Loki is the silvertongue; he is the one who knows how to make people understand, who can bend people with just a few witty sentences.

“I am not you, Loki. I- Without my reputation, I am nothing. I don’t have a family name, no riches, no legacy. You- you can brush off what people say about you because you are a prince, and powerful. Me? Without my reputation, I am nothing.”

“You were enough for me.”

He feels a hysteric chuckle clawing up his throat and tries to keep it contained. “Oh, yes, of course.”

Loki wanders over to one of his couches, sitting primly with all the grace of centuries of diplomatic training. “Please,” he gestures with a long-fingered hand, “why don’t you air your grievances since you cannot believe my words.”

Fandral licks his lips, ugly jealousy twisting in his belly. _You say I was enough, but it isn't me you dream about._

“Who is Siegfried?”

Loki jerks like he’s been slapped, his lips pulling into a thin white line, and, for a second, he’s sure the prince will deny knowing anyone by that name. “That is hardly relevant.”

“Hardly relevant. You accuse me of cheating, but how could I not when you never let me close? When you shut yourself up and keep me at arms-length and never confide in me? When I am left floundering at your mood swings and-“

“Am I to tell you every thought that crosses my mind? Every detail of my day? Isn’t it enough that I give everything I can? What more do you want from me?!”

“I want to know why you cannot trust me!”

“And what grand gesture does that imply?”

“How about the truth?”

Loki’s nostrils flare. “I have never lied to you.”

“Then who is he?”

“What do you care about some past lover?” he can’t even look Fandral in the eye. “I am here, I am now, and I am with you.”

“Are you? Are you really, or are you comparing me to him? Is that why you clamp your teeth together when we fuck and never say my name? Because you fear his will come out instead.”

Fandral sees the prince swallow, his skin deathly pale, eyes staring stubbornly at the large fireplace, and the warrior feels a wicked sense of triumph. “You are a hypocrite, Loki. You accuse me when you are doing the same. Is he some enemy of Asgard? Some giant you have to keep secreted away? Is that why you vanish suddenly? Why you come back moody and taciturn and won’t talk to me for days at a time?” Loki’s struck mute, his face unreadable, and Fandral knows he should stop, but the words have been building up in his chest for the past two decades, and he can’t contain them any longer. “You accuse me of keeping you like a dirty secret, but I bet that’s what you do, too. Or does he know about me? Is it some sick game the two of you are playing?”

“He is dead.” The prince doesn’t raise his voice, but the words seem to echo in the room.

“So, I am competing with a ghost. No wonder I would never-”

“Competing?” the chuckle is cold, and mocking it makes Fandral feel despicably small. “You? There is no competition. If he were alive, I would have never cast my eyes in your direction. He was twice the man you are. Twice as brave and trice the lover. You are nothing beside him.”

“Then why waste your time with me?”  
“Why, indeed." Loki's disdainful stare is enough to make him feel like a bug. "I don’t see the appeal, only looking at you, thinking of the humiliation you’ve put me through for two decades, makes me sick.”

“Humiliation?”

“At least he was man enough to not secret me away. To no flinch away when someone else came. He never resented me my power. Never twitched in disgust when I called seiđr.”

“I-“ Fandral licks his lips. The silence weighs down on his shoulders. Loki’s turned his face back towards the fireplace, and that is worse than the sneering stare. “I don’t resent you, your gifts.”

“No, but they shame you. Is it because they aren’t manly enough? Or because you know you couldn’t beat them with your flimsy iron and your mediocre skills?”

“I am one of the Warrior’s Three. My skills are some of the greatest in Asgard.”

“And yet, I could snap my fingers, and you would fall powerless at my feet. And because you hate that, you spread rumors and laugh when others slander my name.” He heaves a sigh, the anger in his voice bleeding out into tiredness. “And I allowed it. Told myself it was alright because you were afraid. You were afraid your friends would turn from you when they discovered you’re as argr as I am. That is what a relationship is supposed to be, isn’t it? Carrying each other’s burdens. But I am tired of carrying yours and mine.”

“If you had told me what those burdens were, I would have gladly carried them for you. But you always treat me like a commodity, to be there when you wanted a fuck. When you were bored of the library and wanted someone to tag along off-planet.”

“What did you want me to say?”

“How about that you love me? That you want to be with me?”

That catches Loki’s attention. He turns, a frown wrinkling his brow. “But I did tell you. I told you when I made sure nobody could shoot you in the back when I sold my books to get you an invulnerability spell, when I taught you to dance the fire-song when I tended to your burns and held you while you were sick- What more did you want?”

“I wanted you to say it,” he realizes quietly, and Loki’s lips twitch minutely.

The prince hums. “Well. You never asked.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.”

“I guess it is a moot point now.”

Fandral frowns, dread suddenly heavy in his belly. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?”

“I won’t be a secret anymore. I have more self-respect than that.”

“You are leaving me?”

“Isn’t it more convenient for you? You won’t have to pretend anymore to keep your good name.” No. No, he doesn’t want this. “And I won’t bother you with my inconvenient mood-swings and my grief.”

“Loki.” He comes closer to where the prince is sitting, kneeling in front of him and grasping his hands. “Loki, please. Be reasonable. We can work this out. There is no reason to end it. I love you.”

“It seems to me; you have a choice then.” He says, voice even and brutally cold.

“Anything, Loki, please.”

“It’s me or your reputation.”

Fandral knows he should say Loki. Loki, intelligent and witty and funny, with his magic whipping around him and his doors into other realms and his thoughtful gifts and the beautiful curve of his neck under his lips.

But.

But he can already hear the snickers, the whispers at court, the way his friends will shift and push him away and spread rumors, the quiet ‘ _I always suspected_ -‘ and ‘ _well, he has always been slight-_ ‘ and ‘ _do you like being on your knees-?_ ’ and ‘ _Is that why you always dog Thor’s footsteps?_ ’ Knows because he’s heard people say the same things about Loki, has seen the sneers and the giggles, kept at bay only because they fear repercussion.

Loki pulls his hands away, and Fandral knows he’s been quiet too long.

“I see.” He stands, wandering over to the door to his sleeping chambers, and there is dark, twisting anger under Loki’s skin, he can nearly taste it. Fear claws at Fandral’s entrails. “I think you should go on a hunt. I hear Álfheimr is beautiful this time of year.”

Fandral swallows. A lot can happen in a two-week hunting expedition.

“Loki!” The prince stops but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Please. Please don’t tell anyone.”

He can’t read the expression in Loki’s green eyes, but something about the set of his eyebrows makes him look exhausted. “For the love I held for you; I won’t ruin your reputation, Fandral, the Dashing.”

“Thank you.” It feels empty and inadequate. Loki twists his hand.

“Begone.”

The world turns upside down, and then Fandral lands in his own quarters. One of Loki’s scarves is neatly folded on top of his dresser, Loki’s books on the desk, a coat forgotten on the back of a chair. A thousand little things that speak of the time they spent together and that now, somehow, is gone.

Fandral falls face first on the bed, curls up around the pillow that smells like his prince.

An ugly sob tears through him, shaking his whole body. Another follows, and then another until he’s nothing but a trembling mass of tears and pain and regret.

He replays the conversation a million times in his mind, trying to understand how he could have messed up so badly. When he closes his eyes, he sees Loki, sitting on his couch, back straight and eyes gleaming with unshed tears. If only he had asked before if only he had _known_. But he didn't, and he hadn't, and now everything makes sense, but it is too late. In his mind, he hears Loki's words, soft and wretched, and he can't believe he could hurt him so bad. _He is dead_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting.


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